Chapter 3 #2
A grin cracks Milo’s face. “But maybe you wouldn’t mind if he put his paws on other things?”
“Ugh. Stop.” I push to my feet, horrified to find that Milo’s words are having an effect on me. “You’re such a child.”
“Oh, I’m thinking very grown-up thoughts, I assure you. Lumberjack Beckett looked like he wanted to lick you when you put his shirt on,” Milo continues in the same sing-song voice.
I whirl back. “He did not!”
“Like an ice cream cone.” Milo sucks a tooth. “And since you slept in said shirt last night, I have to assume you’d be amenable to a little licking, even if you’re sworn enemies or whatever.”
“That…” I choke lightly. “That is a false interpretation of events, Milo Fitzgerald.”
He hums thoughtfully. “I was this-close to taking a picture of you as proof.”
“You wanted the window open! I was chilly!” I remind him.
I feel a defensive blush climbing up my face.
“A-and I didn’t want to dig through my suitcase to find a sweater in the middle of the night because…
because it would have been loud, and you were sleeping, and I’m thoughtful!
The shirt was right there, so I grabbed it. That’s all!”
“Mmm.”
“And… whatever laundry detergent the guy uses happens to smell really nice,” I press on, trying not to remember the crisp cedar scent of the shirt or to imagine it still lingering on my skin. “Probably some niche local brand.”
“You think Vermont sells some kind of Mountain Man Sex–scented Tide Pods?” He laughs. “Goddamn. I’m changing my whole opinion of this state.”
I snort. “Pfft. Sex was your word, not mine. I do not want to have sex with Beckett Axford.”
“No, of course,” he agrees cheerfully. “You just want to cuddle with him.”
This brings up a whole host of ideas—big-armed, broad-chested, flannel-coated ideas—that I have no business thinking. Not on a public street in broad daylight. And definitely not about jerkus maximus Beckett Axford.
“I mean it, Milo! I legit cannot remember the last time I was as purely angry as I was when he showed up yesterday.”
And that’s saying something. Not just because of the last few months but because of how many hours I’ve spent over the years dealing with clients who think waving their hands and saying “make it, like, pop” is actionable creative feedback on an ad campaign.
Milo looks at me and his smile flickers. “You know… I can’t either. He really gets under your skin, doesn’t he?”
“Like a splinter the size of a fucking troll.”
He laughs and pushes to his feet. “He can’t be all that bad. The man was wearing a Meals on Wheels T-shirt. He feeds the homebound, Griff.”
I huffed. “He probably stole it off a little old lady.”
“Little old lady with impressive shoulders and pecs, amirite,” Milo said through a grin.
“Okay, ignore me. I’ve probably reached the stage of malnutrition and dehydration where I’m no longer making sense.
I’m literally wasting away to a gorgeous husk right here on this quaint little street.
You know what Silvano says about proper hydration being essential for cellular health.
Vermont is murder on my mitochondria, Griffin. ”
I roll my eyes because I know way too much about Milo’s mitochondria and about his various wellness “experts.”
“Then let’s go,” I say, pointing toward the lone grocery-store-ish building in the town center. “I have a shopping list.”
Milo links his arm with mine as we head down the sidewalk. “Of course you do.”
“And I researched a few simple recipes we can make.”
“Really hoping you’ve suddenly taken to using the royal we.”
“Hang on.” I pull away smoothly, handing him the papers, and take my phone out of my pocket. “I need to add laundry detergent to the list.”
Milo’s smile says he’s not offended.
As we stroll down Whether Street, Winsome stretches out before us like a storybook town.
There’s a hand-painted sandwich board outside a place called Ruby’s Diner advertising apple cranberry as their muffin of the day, and it’s making the air smell like a scented candle.
Wind chimes dance on someone’s porch, gently clinking above pots of mums. And every shop door is standing open to let the warm breeze waft in.
Milo’s right. It is a quaint little street.
A bit heavy-handed on the Americana, but lived-in and real.
The cars parked along the curb with license plates from all over New England suggest I’m not the only one who thinks so.
The Abigail Inn’s lot seems pretty full, and peeking in the windows of the restaurant next door, there seems to be a decent crowd for a Tuesday.
I guess I can see why Jim chose Winsome. Maybe that part’s not a mystery after all.
“Fucking asshole,” Milo mutters down at his phone, drawing my attention away from the scenery.
“Who?”
“Eh. Just a TikTok troll. Nothing to worry about.”
My stomach flips. “Commenting on something you posted?” I ask hopefully.
Milo’s started making a name for himself as a health and lifestyle influencer, and every time he posts about spirulina extract, resin shots, or his beloved red-light therapy machine, someone comes for him.
Fortunately, Milo enjoys getting into it with those folks.
“Nah.” He clicks the screen off. “Some guy who runs a hot dog stand in Ohio stitched the billboard TikTok into a discussion of marketing standards and didn’t like it when I educated him.” He smiles. “All good now.”
My stomach sinks anyway. “Milo, you don’t need to fight these battles for me. It changes nothing, and I don’t want any of it blowing back on you—”
He waves a hand. “I’m an adult, Griff. I can take care of myself.”
“I know,” I say. “But—”
“You know, I’ve been thinking it’s time for you to join the influencer game, babe. Hear me out: cottage-core rebrand! Griffycakes123 lives in a mushroom-themed house! He has a tragic backstory! He has an adorable best friend! He gets hot for the lumberjack next door—”
“Stop with that.” I shove Milo, who laughs and feigns stumbling. “And I’m telling my mothers you think my childhood was tragic. Just because we didn’t have much money didn’t mean I wasn’t safe and happy.”
“I meant your recent backstory, obviously.” He pretends to rub his arm and adds in a teasing tone, “Though I remember the story your moms told me about your toast sword. You were a fighter even back then. Kind of foreshadowing the tennis racket incident, when you think about it.”
I roll my eyes. Milo loves this story—the one where my lesbian moms were determined to raise me with non-gendered, non-violent toys and were shocked the first time I bit my toast into the shape of a sword and started parrying imaginary foes at the breakfast table.
“It’s not that I want to fight anyone,” I tell him honestly. “I just don’t want to lose anything else I care about.”
Milo pats me on the shoulder understandingly, and after I playfully shove his hand away, we continue our walk in silence.
The Basket looms at the end of the block, looking like a cross between a rustic event barn and a Trader Joe’s. When we step through the automatic doors, the air is cool, and we’re greeted by a wall of signs.
One says “Fox Creamery Hand-Churned = Udder Joy” under a picture of a cow in lotus pose.
Another says “Sugar House Jam of the Week: Peachy Keen, You Sassy Bean!” A third has a picture of a smiling, anthropomorphic pickle wearing a gold crown and a T-shirt that says “You’re a Big Dill to Someone in Winsome, Vermont!
” They’re all cute, but I don’t know what any of them mean, which is kinda the point of a sign.
Part of me wants to explain this to the friendly-looking guy behind the lone cash register, who’s watching us with the avid look of a man who hasn’t had fresh shoppers in a while.
But since Milo’s hangry-ness is growing with the gravitational force of a black hole, instead, I focus on completing our shopping before it sucks me in.
Fortunately, the store is small and well laid out, and we quickly find all the items on my list… with one crucial exception.
“Excuse me, sir,” I begin as I set my basket down by the register.
“Perky!” he says.
For a second, I think he’s describing himself as a form of greeting, and I’m almost tempted to blurt out, “Overtired and cynical!”
Then he points to his name tag—Perkins (Perky) Halloran, Owner Since 1998.
Oh.
Milo elbows me aside. “Hi, Perky, I’m Milo.
Could you please direct me to your selection of functional hydration beverages?
I’m looking for aloe juice, ideally with pulp.
Possibly a reishi mushroom elixir—I’m not picky about brand.
And at this rate, I’ll take literally anything with hibiscus tonic. ”
I duck my chin to my chest and rub my forehead. I’m not sure where Milo thinks those beverages would be hiding since we’ve already been up and down all ten aisles.
Sure enough, with each suggestion, Perky seems more confused. “We got water, soda, and fruit juice in aisle seven,” he offers.
Milo seems crushed and frazzled. He gives me a look that says Griffin, do something, which kinda belies the whole “I’m an adult, I take care of myself” thing from before. But unlike certain best friends, I don’t point out my best friend’s peccadilloes and inconsistencies.
“Do you have anything with electrolytes?” I suggest.
“Ohhhh!” Perky brightens. “Of course. Why dincha say so? We got a whole display of local pickles in aisle four.”
“Pickles,” I repeat, sure I’ve misheard. Hoping I’ve misheard.
“Sure thing. Pickles are the original electrolyte, boys,” Perky says confidently. “Sugar-free. Full of sodium and potassium. Rehydrate the body and the soul.”
“Pickles,” Milo breathes like Perky’s become his newest health expert. “I never thought…” He grabs a fresh shopping basket and heads off.
Meanwhile, I stand there frozen, certain my horror’s showing on my face.
Perky laughs as he scans my purchases. “Not a pickle fan, I take it?”
“Uh. No.” More like I hate them.